Flyin’ high, leavin’ home
BY GAWD, IT’S mid-August already, time to raise the mower blade an inch to keep the grass from drying out, time to spritz on a little more High Karate before dinner. August is ticks and slivers, salty margaritas and clammy towels. Hey, kid, is that sunscreen or ranch dressing on your plate? Who cares? Go ahead, eat up.
It’s August, all right. High summer. Higher heat. Every place is sweltering. Every place is Alabama.
“Hey, y’all, wanna go to the gym?” I ask.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” someone asks.
“Why is he saying y’all?”
“Come on, y’all. Let’s go work out.”
“What’s a y’all?”
“What’s a gym?” asks another.
I sweat all the time, even in cold weather, so the kids are mystified by my need to work out at the gym on soupy days like this. Even by breakfast, I’m usually a little funky. By lunch, I have that full-blown daddy smell -- a mixture of perspiration, charcoal fluid and bait.
Anyway, I’m determined to lose 5 pounds before vacation, whether the kids want to join me or not. Besides, I like the gym. It’s a good gym, though the eager beavers who get there at 5:30 a.m. can be a little aggravating, not to mention those clowns in the locker room who reek of garlic.
I’ve noticed lately that all it takes is one guy overdoing the shrimp scampi the night before to ruin the locker room for the rest of us. Garlic doesn’t come off in the shower, dude. Lord help his suffering wife.
Yep, I’d like to lose 5 pounds before our Chicago trip, in anticipation of adding 10, since my plan while on vacation is to eat constantly, rest a little, then eat a little more. Honestly, I’d prefer to celebrate this summer sabbatical by making love six or seven times a day -- a healthier alternative -- but my wife, Posh, finds that excessive, even by L.A. standards.
“I didn’t mean with you, dear,” I told her.
“Is everything a joke with you?” Posh asked.
“So far.”
Needless to say, I’ll be concentrating on our trip’s culinary rewards instead, dense meaty dishes that Midwesterners prefer. Pizza. Italian beef. A nice slab of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, seared just so.
Weightwise, it doesn’t help that I’ve spent the summer watching the kids eat everything available at home, including a couple of the houseplants, which they rolled into tortillas and baked with cheese. Evidently, they have the metabolism of a Ferrari. They eat and eat, and you can still see their rib cages through their shirts, the slightest bulge in their gallbladders.
The other day, they decided to make their special Orange Julius -- orange juice, powdered sugar and a dash of champagne -- then pour it liberally over cereal.
“Why do we have lips?” one of them asked while eating.
“To slurp soup with,” I explained.
“I doubt that,” one responded.
“Everything tastes better through a straw,” said the little girl.
“Maybe that’s why we have lips.”
“Pass the cereal,” said the boy.
Burp.
Anyway, we’re off again to see the Heartland, which I hear is insanely wonderful this time of year. Garrison Keillor. Rhubarb pie. Gnats the size of Homer Simpson’s head. The kids are excited to visit their cousins and have already started pulling down suitcases and stuffing them with T-shirts and dirty socks.
The little girl, poor thing, has to share a suitcase, since we had to burn the one she brought home from camp. Her mother looked at it -- full of camp grime, marshmallows and mice -- and decided the best thing to do was to take a match to it. Made a nice fire, visible from space.
In any case, it’s a big job, preparing for a trip like this. The little guy, 4, has been practicing being good for a full week now. Such behavior doesn’t come naturally to him, yet he tries and tries his very best. It’s a little like joining a seminary, except with a better cable TV package.
In a few days, he’s going to Grandma’s, where good behavior is almost a law. You spill your milk there and she pretends not to care, but you can tell by the way Grandma scrub-scrub-scrubs the carpet that she really, deeply cares.
Yes, Chicago, here we come again. Flight 101.5 into the big warm bosom of O’Hare International. Hope the fridge is full and the lawn needs cutting. Are the fireflies still in season? Have the Cubs collapsed yet?
We’re up for anything, pretty much. Crazy Californians. We’ll be the ones getting off the plane wearing flip-flops and Mardi Gras beads.
Hello, Heartland. Where do you keep the cows?
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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.
